The goddess’ face of Chustern was known for her veil. The costume meant that the women of the region had to be chaste and respectful to their husbands. Four extensive wings sprout from her back, representing the Chrav Kingdoms while both her palms encompassed orbs either crusted pearl and obsidian. As Malrow stared at the human sized gold embellished statue, he had silently judged the Thra temple’s Thravadin and their Icamarin worshiped in Fibi Enderi. Enthah Icamarin was blind. So, like many of the prints he had to stamp the Summit had provided him that morning, the goddess’ face had a blind fold and held a staff and weighing scale on each hand. Just by looking at her, people could tell that the Republic of Endaya valued truth, and by their goddess’ design, their region’s ideology.

They were also not required to be overtly zealous. Unlike how the priestess told him to pray specific prayers, wash his feet, and kneel privately inside a prayer closet, those of the Isca faith were free to recite from the heart, wear whatever clothes to the temple, and make communion with a community altogether.

Malrow could not complain. With each passing hour inside the closet, he had simultaneously prayed on a mat and listened beyond the stone walls for the diminishing number of devotees as evening grew near. With his good hearing, he could tell where the assigned priestess for that day was, probably eating dinner. Not long, he made a celebratory huff when he heard the slow shut of the main entrance door. Unfortunately, his own chamber had no windows. Meaning, he had to endure enough hours enclosed with the light from old wax candles and the damp scent of putrid water.

When Malrow opened his eyes to look at the Thravadin statue again, like her veil, darkness had swallowed the room and the warmth from the candles were long snuffed out.

Malrow released his hands from pleading and confidently moseyed to the statue. He had wanted to bring Desrin into this mission but unlike him, his human eyes could not see in the dark for the entire journey. Malrow clutched his hands at the circular pedestal of the statue and twisted with all his might. With his fae strength, it was not that hard to turn Thravadin completely. A click followed and Malrow watched in grayscale, the floor surrounding the statue sink and form stairs. The rough friction of stone was said to be inaudible from the outside but he winced as its hollowing volume rounded down to the path beneath.

The descent was promised to be long. With no slippers to keep the dust away, Malrow’s soles accumulated grime until they kissed the base of the stairs. He faced a tall yet narrow hallway. Had Malrow the ability to use eth, he could have casted flames at the sconces that lined the walls. But his fae gifts had compensated what many adorned the Blessed. With his smell, the same rancid water dripped down the walls. Rat feces made his gooseflesh rise as he could not help but step from one to another. He heard only his erratic heart, slowly stampending into worry as the absence of the sky made him feel buried and trapped. If he was going to be here the whole night, he could expel his afternoon meal.

He made sure to follow and memorize the map the King had drawn him. Since his fae and human blood shaped him allergic to both Faerian and Pillar-State eths, no spells were to his use. The later parchment had to be burned by eth-hagama just to make sure there was nothing left to recover. There were only a small number of people who knew this secret passage. A series of intertwining channels, one Malrow was only allowed to go through and back. He had asked the priestess back at the top that he was going to use the prayer room for the entire night. This was his only entrance and his only way out.

The risk for secrecy was what the King had emphasized. The contacts he will be meeting were vehemently hidden and whatever information they were going to give will only be revealed under the protection of a high yet subtle concentration of enchantments. When Malrow met the two soaring cragged doors of the library, he noticed the etched runes on its surface. He had to hold his gasp from escaping as he discovered that the right hatch was clearly scratched in Alohima and the other in Thravbon. He may have mediocre knowledge when it comes to the arcane but Malrow was able to discern that the doors told cloaking, protection, preservation, and devotion. He was about to touch the stone egresses with naked fingers when a warning from behind made him jolt.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you. He had amplified the security spell and you would not like buzzing until your heart stopped.”

Malrow turned and snapped a fighting stance. The hooded figure in grayscale was bundled in thick dark leather, a face mask with goggles, and a bulging bag with a crossbow sashed on it. As he continued to spy out what else the individual possessed, the concern of not being able to smell anything nor hear footsteps had worsened his already clouded mind.

“You’re a restless mess, fellow,” the figure muffled calmly. He rested his hands on his waist and added, “Might as well stand down. It will be easy to know if you are who he sent when we…”

Malrow tightened his fists and posture as he saw the figure lower his shoulders and choked, “By Thradin! I can’t believe he sent you!”

Malrow suppressed his surprise as the figure unceremoniously pulled down his hood, and took off her mask. 

The face of his old Master in Civics smiled and said, “You have outgrown us both.”

The shock that had enveloped Malrow’s entire body was still convulsing his nerves when the sound of stone being moved groaned and the soft glow of mage light cascaded behind him.

“What has taken you long, my lady?” a familiar drag of Etharini echoed with the tick and tack of wooden shoes. “Don’t tell me your pendant has lost its eth already–”

Malrow swiftly shifted towards the mage and made a stern face.

“Oh! Oh…” Monterpelagious startled eyes darkened as he too came to realize who he was facing.

“Master,” Malrow spitefully greeted.

“Sky Talon,” the Master of Lore sneered.